


Morning Wood

by SyntheticEuphoria



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Community: tf_kinkmeme, Consensual Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingerfucking, Kink Meme, M/M, Oral Sex, Public Sex, Size Difference, Sticky, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Voyeurism, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:01:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1740596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticEuphoria/pseuds/SyntheticEuphoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots and bearer of the Matrix of Leadership, was in the mood to tap some aft.</p>
<p>Warning for Sticky Sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Wood

Bootup finished swiftly and cleanly, and Optimus Prime onlined his optics. He awoke feeling comfortable and warm in his berth; for the first night in a long, long time, he’d actually gotten to bed _early_ , and the recharge he’d gotten had been both deep and restful.

…Yet stimulating, oxymoronical though it might be. As he sat up, the Prime recalled the most delightful dream he’d been having about that one time in Protihex where he had met that fantastic – and creative – pair of racers. They had decided, for whatever unknown reason, to seduce the drab little red and blue dockworker sitting by himself in the corner of the bar.

He remembered them well, despite how much time had passed, and apparently his subconscious remembered how well they’d worked together to completely fry his circuits into a satisfied – and somewhat gooey – pile of overheated Orion Pax. One had been mostly bright yellow and half the dockworker’s height; he never did give his name, but he’d been quick-witted, flirty, and surprisingly dominant in the berth. The racer had told – no, _ordered_ – Orion to keep his hands off and stay still as tiny yellow hips bounced frantically up and down on his stiff spike. When he failed to follow directions, the larger of the pair had been directed to hold him down.

Optimus would never forget the expression on the face hovering above him as the mech knelt at the head of the berth, staring down at the one he restrained. And Optimus would probably never understand how it was possible to look both shy and lecherous at the same time; a bashful _leer_ was an expression he had yet to see on anyone else since. The strange half-smile and frequently-averted optics had been set attractively in a large face atop a proportionately large body; as the yellow racer had been half Orion’s height, this one was nearly that much taller – a surprising build for a racer.

The tall mech had rhythmically squeezed his captive’s wrists with every bounce of his comrade, and Orion never did decide if he thought it was subconscious or purposeful. Whichever it had been, he’d enjoyed the Pit out of it.

Plenty more happened that night in the hotel room, but he’d woken up from the dream halfway through the yellow racer’s enthusiastic ride. Now… Now, Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots and bearer of the Matrix of Leadership, was in the mood to tap some aft.

_____

The be honest, his first thought had been Bumblebee, if only because of the similar color and size to his one-night-stand’s more dominant participant; not that Bee didn’t have plenty of other reasons for being attractive in his own right. However, the Spec Ops mech he came across within about a minute of exiting his quarters was decidedly not Bumblebee, and there was no real reason to search out one particular mech when another was right in front of him.

“Hey there, Optimus! How’s it hangin’?”

Jazz smiled brightly and Optimus smiled back, the expression obvious despite the facemask. “Good morning, Jazz. I am afraid that it is not so much ‘hanging’ as ‘knocking enthusiastically at the door’.”

And that was when the Prime was rewarded with a rare look of bafflement from his head of Special Operations, Jazz’s mouth twisted into a little open-mouthed frown of confusion; his optic ridges were probably furrowed, too. “Sorry, Big Guy… Am I missin’ sumpin’?”

Optimus chuckled, still smiling, and took a step closer. “I find myself in such a state of arousal that my spike is attempting to extend through my codpiece. Would you mind if I shoved you against that wall over there and proceeded to interface us both into unconsciousness?”

The black and white Porsche’s mouth dropped into a full-out gape… but only for a moment. Then his face lit up into a giant, slag-eating grin. “Prime, my body is ready.” He complimented this statement by standing at full attention and saluting; amusingly, Optimus was certain that this was the first time he had ever seen Jazz assume that particular position. If he had his way, and he would, he would ensure that Jazz assumed several other interesting positions in the immediate future.

\-----

Jazz continued to grin as he allowed himself to be herded while his Prime advanced, a predatory sparkle in the big mech’s optics. As soon as he felt his back press against the wall, Optimus was suddenly kneeling in front of him, using his arms to spread Jazz’s knees. All at once, the Porsche was hoisted up, ‘seated’ against the wall with his legs looped over the larger mech’s shoulders, and Prime _licked_ his interface cover. At some point the facemask had disappeared, apparently.

“Open up, pretty please?” Despite the word-choice, that growling tone clearly made it a demand.

And – so far as Jazz’s libido was concerned – the way Optimus was staring intently into his optics as he said it took out any question of denying him; the cover snapped open almost without thought. A moment later, the spy was all but transformed into a space barnacle, the way he was wrapped around the other mech’s helm, letting out little breathy pants while his leader used his glossa to expertly lap at, tease over, and wriggle inside of Jazz’s valve.

The Prime tilted his head to one side to allow for room when his tasty treat quickly gained a friend, and he smiled as he wrapped a hand around it, pumping his captive’s very erect spike with a slow but firm pace while he continued to enthusiastically eat the mech out.

Jazz squeaked, shuddered, and went on the offensive. While he was all for multiple rounds, his pride just wouldn’t stand for it to let Optimus do everything; the Porsche would _not_ last long if that kept up.

Not that there were a whole lot of options for him to attack. He kissed all over the top of Optimus’ helm, wrapped one hand around an audio finial, stroked that one with his fingers, and wrapped his mouth around its partner, sucking with almost panicked eagerness. The high little sound Optimus made in the back of his throat was perfect; so was the way he sped up, both mouth and hand, in response.

The truck didn’t seem to mind having his face ground into, nor did he protest the tight squeeze on his left audial as Jazz erupted into overload with a hoarse yell. He continued the stimulus for a few moments, gradually slowing to a halt, before kissing his way from valve to one thigh, all the while stroking the opposite hip with his fingers as Jazz recovered above him, panting heavily.

Optimus didn’t give him too long, though. A moment later he was moving to stand, mindful not to scrape the smaller mech’s back on the wall, and carefully flipped him around.

Jazz chuckled as he was pressed chest-first against the flat, solid surface of the _Ark_ ’s wall, the not-so-flat yet nearly as solid mass of his Prime against his back. One thick arm was wrapped around his midsection, the other stroking up and down the outside of his leg, both of which were hanging freely a good distance above the floor. Slightly damp lips pressed to the side of his neck and he sighed in pleasure.

“Ready to go again?” came the rumble of a highly-aroused Prime, husked into the side of the spy’s helm.

The Porsche nodded fervently, smiling, and groaned deeply when he felt, not a spike, but two thick fingers press into him from behind. The pumping motion was slow, purposeful, and maddening after the almost break-neck speed of the first overload. Jazz caught himself making small, whining noises and clawing at the wall he was pressed against in no time. Optimus was kissing the back of his neck and Jazz could feel the – evil! – smile there. The languorous, deep strokes inside of him were fantastic, stretching him as they spread apart and wiggled every now and then. But they were driving him insane!

“Faster?”

Could Optimus read his mind or something, or was that just a well-timed guess? …Wait, crap. How long had Jazz been quietly chanting ‘please’?

Optimus chuckled as the mumbled pleas became a desperate shout of ‘yes!’ He then proceeded to add a third finger and pump that tight valve for all it was worth.

Jazz’s hands curled into claws and scraped ten jagged furrows down the wall, accompanied by a drawn-out scream. The fingers stretched his lining perfectly, the friction against his inner walls was euphoric, and the way his spike kept bouncing with every upward thrust made its tip bump against the wall was… frustrating, actually; just enough to remind him that it was out there, straining and eager, and receiving no attention at all.

However, this was not stopping him from feeling the hot coil of arousal in his lower regions growing tighter and tighter at every inward pump of three thick fingers. The coil tightened to the point of snapping, he felt himself right on the cusp, and the fingers pulled out.

The ten furrows in the wall became twenty as he screamed again, in frustration this time. A soft kiss to the base of his neck, and the twenty became thirty; it had been accompanied by the Prime’s spike entering him all in one movement, a hand wrapping around his neglected spike, and the firm twist of that hand sending a thick stream of transfluid smearing across the glaring orange wall.

Jazz felt his optics trying to roll up into his helm as he bit down hard on his lower lip. He low, animalistic groan escaped him as the hand on his spike kept pumping, just as slow and purposeful as the first round of fingering had been, drawing out every last drop of ejaculate and smearing it down the stiff shaft.

“My turn, now, I think.”

He felt his head loll to one side, mouth agape and whole body wracked with tremors as Prime’s spike – just a fraction thicker than the three fingers had been and a whole lot longer – moved in and out of his obscenely dripping valve. Jazz’s thighs were positively soaked, and though he couldn’t see it he was pretty sure the floor below was one big puddle.

Optimus picked up his pace little by little, as the hand doing interesting, twisty things to the Porsche’s shaft followed suit and the grip around Jazz’s middle gradually got tighter. It wasn’t painful or anything, but it reminded him of just how strong the mech holding him up was, and he found himself getting turned on all over again – how was that possible? He was already having awesome sex! – at the thought of what he’d seen this mech do with his bare hands in a battle.

…The tightening hold also had the added benefit of compressing his midsection, which in turn made him feel even _more_ full of fantastic, rapidly moving spike.

This time it was Optimus who shouted as he came, the slick sliding of his erection going frantic as thick bursts of fluid pumped out of him, filling Jazz up only to ooze out and join the puddle.

The puddle which Optimus Prime then proceeded to slip in and crash on his aft, staying inside of Jazz, who – after a short ‘oof!’ of surprise – then started laughing loudly, but only for a moment, because he was just too worn out to put in the effort for a good, old-fashioned belly-laugh.

The spy perked up a bit when he heard laughter from somewhere other than underneath him, though. Apparently they’d gathered an audience at some point.

Jazz sat up slowly, grunted at the shift of the spike inside, and scooted backwards – up Optimus’ chest – to let the barely-softened erection _pop_ out of him. He grinned at the smear of fluids he was leaving on the other mech’s abdomen, then grinned at Prowl, who was smirking, and grinned wider at Sideswipe, who looked ravenous. Several of the mechs behind them were applauding, so Jazz did a showy bow from where he sat. He’d have stood up for a better flourish, but he was almost positive that his legs wouldn’t hold him.

And he definitely wasn’t going to move when he _felt_ Optimus laughing underneath him; tingly! “How long have you all been there?” he rumbled, mask back in place.

“Oh, since about the time we all got a call from Red Alert saying that there was ‘an event of great interest’ taking place in the hallway of the Officers’ Deck,” replied Sideswipe, who was continuously attempted to edge closer to Prowl – or more specifically, Prowl’s doorwings – but every time he reached out a hand, the Datsun dodged just out of reach, despite not actually looking at him. It was probably the reason that Prowl’s smirk was edging towards being a full-blown smile.

Behind him, Sunstreaker was bouncing up and down on Ironhide’s spike, the pair seemingly oblivious to the world around them. On the opposite stretch of hallway there was a similar group of watching mechs, one of which was Ratchet, on his hands and knees, his port stretched open by an invisible spike; apparently Mirage was feeling kinky today, letting everyone see inside of the medic’s valve. Jazz wasn’t sure if the CMO was aware of this or not, because his face was buried in his arms against the floor, making low, pleased noises as he rocked backwards into invisible thrusts.

Jazz chuckled again, slowly lay down, and rolled off of Optimus to the floor. Oh, yeah… puddle. He should have thought of that before moving. Tilting his helm back to look at the red and blue mech, he smiled brightly. “Thanks for the ride, Prime.”

“My pleasure.” The truck sighed happily and relaxed onto the floor, arms curled loosely behind his helm. “My apologies that I did not, in fact, knock us both offline.”

Laughing, the spy patted him on the hip, then grinned up at Hound who was hovering closer. “Wanna help a mech to ‘is quarters?” Hound nodded and scooped him up, then froze when Jazz leaned up and whispered something against his audio. The tracker all but ran to Jazz’s quarters after that, looking excited about _whatever_ he’d been told.

\-----

Optimus shook his head bemusedly at the Head of Special Operations; that mech was almost impossible to wear out. A gentle touch to his arms, being carefully pulled out straight along the floor, had him tilting his head back. Skyfire knelt behind him, rubbing his thumbs in gentle circles on the Prime’s wrists.

“May I have this dance?” asked the shuttle. And there it was, that expression: the bashful leer of someone both shy and feeling lecherous.

Optimus snapped his mask away again, smiling. “Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the TFAnonKinkMeme:  
> http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/11776.html?thread=14424320#t14424320
> 
> Not my best work, but it was fun to write. :)


End file.
